


Kilts

by standbygo



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock - Fandom
Genre: Anal Sex, BAMF John, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Johnlock Roulette, Kilts, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Oral Sex, Porn with Feelings, Shameless Smut, Singing, Smut, sub!Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-12
Updated: 2014-06-12
Packaged: 2018-02-04 08:21:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,794
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1772200
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/standbygo/pseuds/standbygo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The boys get dressed up to go undercover at a Scottish wedding. Hijinks ensue.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Kilts

**Author's Note:**

> Please do not redistribute my fanfiction on other archives or sites without my express permission. Thank you.
> 
> This is probably the porniest porn I ever porned. Hope it's okay.

“Still pissed at you, you know,” John shouted down the stairs.

“Yes, yes. Hurry John!”

“Three days, Sherlock. Three days. A day _and a half_ before you told me where you were.”

“Glasgow! It was for a case!”

“I know, it’s just…” Sherlock heard John move to the top of the stairs, heard his voice become a bit softer. “I wish you’d let me know. I was worried sick.”

“I said I was sorry.”

“Not enough. A few more times, ta very much.”

“All right, but later. Get dressed, hurry!”

John was still swearing under his breath, but Sherlock heard him moving around the bedroom again. “What’s this about again?”

“We need to go undercover.”

“And the garment bag? What’s that for?”

“It’s a wedding.”

“Fancy togs, then?”

“Yes, I picked it up for you.”

“Hang on, you know my size?”

“Of course I do.”

“Of course you do,” John muttered. Sherlock could hear him rambling to himself, the monologue to an invisible audience, a habit of John’s that Sherlock adored. It was almost worth pissing him off. “Smartest man in England, can’t figure out how to send a simple text letting me know where he was…”

Sherlock heard the sound of the zipper of the garment bag, then a long pause.

“Sherlock Bloody Holmes, are you out of your God damn mind?” John yelled.

“Just hurry, John!”

Silence.

Ten minutes later, John stomped down the stairs. “Can’t believe the things I let you talk me into, I swear to God…” He came into the sitting room and stopped dead, and Sherlock forgot his own name for a moment.

Jacket and waistcoat, fitted perfectly across the shoulders. Tuxedo shirt, black bowtie, tied crisply. Buttons, three on each side of the jacket and three on each cuff, shining brightly.

John’s kilt was a royal blue, with wide darker blue stripes, thin red and yellow, falling just below his knee. The sgian dubh showed just above his socks, with only two or three inches of leg between the kilt and sock. The sporran draped perfectly between his hips.

Sherlock’s kilt was mostly green, with broad blue stripes the same colour as John’s, yellow and red thin stripes as well. Same colours, different pattern.

“That’s,” Sherlock began, cleared his throat, and began again, “that’s the Watson Ancient tartan.”

“I know,” John said, his eyes fixed on Sherlock.

“You did everything right,” Sherlock said with a small smile, and the look in his eyes went deep, and deeper.

“John _Hamish_ Watson, remember?” John stepped forward and slowly traced a finger along the edge of Sherlock’s jacket. “You look… you did everything right too.”

Sherlock caught John’s hand and kissed his palm, looking down at John through his eyelashes. “Come on now,” he said with the evil smile that made John’s heart beat a little faster (panic or desire, he wasn’t sure), “we mustn’t be late for the wedding.”

+

_Six hours later_

“Stop laughing, John.”

Sherlock stomped up the stairs to 221B, with John trailing behind. John’s progress kept being impeded by fresh rounds of giggles. Finally he gave up and leaned against the wall and gave himself over.

“Not funny at all.”

“Oh God. Oh God. I can’t breathe.”

“Shut up.”

“The stroppier you get, the more I… Oh God.” John doubled over again.

“Fine. You’ll wake up Mrs. Hudson, and she’ll come out, and want to know why you’re laughing, and you’ll tell her, and then you’ll _both_ be laughing at me like diseased waterfowl.”

John took a few gulps of air. “She’s away, she’s with her niece-” And though he had been trying so hard to stop, another gust of a laugh burst out of him.

“Small mercies.” Sherlock turned his back and continued stomping up the stairs.

John recovered sufficiently to climb the stairs after him. “The look on Greg’s face. Oh God.”

“You nearly ruined everything, John! We could have lost him!”

“I know, I know, but the sight of you running down that alley after Lewis, kilt flying up and your arse for all to see…”

“Shut up. I caught him, didn’t I, while you and Lestrade were acting like twelve year olds.”

John staggered into the flat and closed the door, leaning on it. “Oh, it was glorious.  Greg’s jealous of me now.”

Sherlock snarled between his teeth, “Stop. Laughing.”

John suddenly crowded into Sherlock’s space, turning him and pushing him against the door. Sherlock found himself pinned by hips and shoulders by an abruptly sober Captain John H. Watson.

John leaned up and into Sherlock’s face, their lips almost brushing, and said in his ‘ _I-have-had-just-about-enough-of- this-Sherlock_ ’ voice, “Stop. Pouting.”

Tension rippled between them for a moment, seesawing from peevishness into a very different thing. Then Sherlock’s head tilted very slightly, and then they were kissing, teeth clashing, sucking hard on lips, groaning with relief and desire and want.

John’s hand was not gentle at all as it moved from clutching at Sherlock’s hair, to down his side, to just below his hip. He couldn’t help himself from rutting against Sherlock as his fingers worked to raise the kilt up and out of the way. Sherlock whined as John grabbed a handful of Sherlock’s arse, his fingers nearly claws.

“God, it’s a good job you run fast, I wanted to grab you and bend you over a rubbish can and fuck you, fuck that beautiful arse, right there in the alley. Didn’t care if Greg or the others were there.”

John’s other hand came down Sherlock’s other side, and grasped, pulling Sherlock hard into John’s hips. John could feel Sherlock’s growing erection against his lower belly, and ground himself against Sherlock’s thigh. Sherlock’s hands were wandering restlessly over John’s chest, back, shoulders, up to his hair, then pulling at the material at his shoulders, pulling him closer.

Without warning he pushed John back and sank to his knees. John had enough time to glance down at Sherlock and see his feral grin and bright eyes before Sherlock ducked underneath his kilt and pulled John’s cock into his mouth.

John groaned as he felt himself grow and harden inside the wet heat of Sherlock’s mouth. Looking down, he watched the hypnotizing sight of the slight movement of Sherlock’s head beneath the kilt, the material moving in slow waves. Sherlock’s hands rested gently on John’s bare legs, stroking up and down from his hips to his knees, then up the backs of his legs, up the swell of his arse and back to his hips.

After a moment, Sherlock began to guide John’s hips, drawing his pelvis against his face, pushing his cock a little deeper into his mouth. Then his hands became more forceful, and John leaned against the door and took the hint, and began to thrust into Sherlock’s mouth. He felt the vibration of Sherlock’s moan all around his cock, making his hips flinch and stutter hard.

Sherlock’s hands slid away from John’s hips and moved to the outside of the kilt, flattening against John’s belly. They slid up, gliding hard against John’s stomach and chest, bumping past the buttons on the jacket until Sherlock’s arms were fully extended above his head. Then they moved back from John’s body a few inches, hovering in front of John’s face.

John knew what this meant – Sherlock was in a submissive mood, and was giving John tacit permission to dominate. John knew this, but always felt he should double check. Sherlock had not been treated well by his sexual partners in the past, and John was determined to never, ever be one of those people, even by accident or through a misunderstanding.

“Are you sure, love?” he murmured, and felt rather than saw Sherlock’s answer – his head nodding, cock still deep in his mouth, and humming an affirmative sound.

John stood straight again, took his hands from the door, and grabbed Sherlock by the wrists. He pulled them up slightly, not enough to hurt but enough to pull Sherlock up straighter. Sherlock moaned around his cock, and the vibrations and the sound combined to help John set a faster rhythm into his mouth. He watched Sherlock’s hands, fascinated, as Sherlock’s desire made them flex and clench and flex again. John pulled Sherlock’s left hand closer and drew the middle finger into his mouth, sucking hard, reaching with his tongue to lick the webbing between his fingers.

Sherlock groaned again and suddenly John could feel heat pooling in his belly. _Not yet, not yet_ , he thought, and while it half killed him to say it, he panted, “Sherlock, stop, stop.” But Sherlock either didn’t hear or ignored him, and John had to hold Sherlock’s wrists in his left hand, and reach down with his right, fumbling under the kilt and pulling Sherlock by the hair until he let go of John’s cock with a pop.

Sherlock’s head emerged from under the kilt, flushed and sweaty, confused and peevish. John looked down and said sternly, “I don’t want to come like that.”

Sherlock’s lips were swollen, and he was panting slightly. “What do you want, John? Tell me. Anything you want.”

“Hngg, God.” John pulled Sherlock to his feet and guided him over to the armchair. The rough, itchy material of the kilt rubbed against the damp and sensitive skin of his cock, which was tantalizing and irritating at the same time. Gently but firmly, he helped Sherlock to kneel on the seat of the chair and to lean on the back.

“There you go, right the way over. Lean over a bit more. That’s it,” he murmured. He admired the lines of Sherlock’s body, the fit of the suit, and the flow of the kilt against his long legs. “Stay still.”

“Where are you going?” Sherlock said with a note of petulance as John stepped away.

“I’m going to get some lube, and then I’m going to come back and fuck you,” John said, and his own words made his cock twitch.

Evidently Sherlock was experiencing a similar effect. He whined, “I’m coming with you,” and began to stand. Quickly John was beside him again, pressing down on the back of Sherlock’s neck.

“Stay where you are,” he said sternly.

“But I want-”

“Three days, Sherlock,” John hissed.  “Three days I waited for you.”

Sherlock stopped struggling immediately and fell silent. After a moment he said, “Yes, John,” and buried his face in his arms against the back of the chair.

John let go of his neck, mollified, and said quietly, “I’ll be right back.” He stepped away, hesitated, and stepped back, lifted the back of the kilt to expose Sherlock’s arse, then walked to their room.

He forced himself to walk slowly, partly to tease this moment out for himself and for Sherlock, and also to calm himself – he found himself too close there in the sitting room, with Sherlock’s mouth wrapped around his cock, and he didn’t want this to end too soon. He was still hard, and the tip of it brushing against the coarse wool of the kilt flared along his nerve endings, like sparklers on a birthday cake. He got the bottle of lube from the bedside table and returned to the sitting room, concentrating on taking measured steps.

Sherlock had not moved since he left, and the sight of him waiting for John, exposed and vulnerable, was hugely erotic for John. Sherlock was trembling slightly, but John wasn’t sure if it was because of the cool air of the room or muscle strain or sexual impatience.

“Good boy,” he crooned as he entered the room. He brushed his hand along the swell of Sherlock’s arse, felt the muscles jump and twitch under his fingers. “I’ll take care of you, I promise, Sherlock.”

Sherlock made a noise that was half sigh, half whine. John kept stroking the skin of Sherlock’s arse and thighs, sensitizing the skin, alternating between firm caresses and soft, nearly tickling, not-quite-touching touches. Sherlock’s trembles gradually evolved into shakes, but he said nothing, except for his quickening breath. John heard what he was _not_ saying, and clicked the lid open on the lube.

He smeared a generous portion on the middle finger of his left hand, his dominant hand, still stronger and more dexterous than his right even with the injury on that shoulder. Softly, carefully, he circled Sherlock’s hole, spreading the lube around the edges, then dipping his finger inside. He heard Sherlock gasp quietly, felt his muscles flutter around his finger, then ease off.

The kilt began to slip down into place and John impatiently pushed it back up over Sherlock’s back, then moved his hand back to Sherlock’s hip, steadying him. “That’s it, good boy,” he murmured, adding more lube to his index finger. Sherlock groaned as John breached him carefully but firmly with his two fingers, fighting the instinctive resistance of the muscles. The vibration of Sherlock’s voice rippled through his body, reflecting up through John’s hand on his hip.

“That good?” he said softly.

“Yes – yes – yes – m-” Sherlock’s mouth snapped shut over the word, and John smiled.

“More? You want more, hm?”

“Yes.”

“You’re being so good, so patient, Sherlock. Just a little more.”

Sherlock hummed-whined, and John saw his hands clench into fists. He rewarded him by twisting and scissoring his fingers, and felt the rumble of another deep groan.

“You’re so tight,” he said. “God. Too long without a good fucking, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Sherlock gasped, and John knew that he was officially off the rails, so turned on that he’d lost his normal speech patterns.

“Soon, baby,” John crooned, and added a third finger, and moved his right hand around to Sherlock’s cock. It was rock hard and dripping, and John traced his gently fingers up and down the length of it, loving the feel of the soft skin and the sound of Sherlock’s breath speeding up. He found himself rutting against Sherlock’s hip, the rough material of the kilt between his own cock and the hardness of Sherlock’s body, and all of a sudden John felt that he and Sherlock had both been patient enough.

Sherlock cried out briefly when John pulled his fingers out and removed his hand from Sherlock’s cock. “It’s all right, baby, I’m right here,” John said, his hands shaking as pulled up his kilt and smeared more lube over his cock. “It’s all right, baby, just a minute,” he said, aware that he was babbling, that he was off the rails as well. The sporran was getting in his way, and he swore and unclipped the chain and threw it aside. Sherlock whined again, and John panted, “Just a minute, just a minute,” and pushed the back of Sherlock’s kilt further up his back, and draped the front of his own kilt over Sherlock’s back, and lined his cock up, blind, and said, “Okay, love, now,” and pushed himself in, slow and steady.

When he felt his hips bump up against Sherlock’s arse, John paused, gripping Sherlock by the hip with his left hand and by his shoulder with his right. God, he was tight, tighter than usual, but so hot and there was enough lube to make everything feel just right.

“You okay?” he said, concentrating on keeping his hips still.

“Yes, just – just a minute, please,” Sherlock gasped. “You’re so big, God.”

“You feel so good, Sherlock, you make me feel so good, I love how you feel.”

“God. God. I missed you, missed you so.”

John’s twitching muscles stilled. He had never heard Sherlock say such a thing before. He felt a warmth that had nothing to do with desire or sex, and he stroked Sherlock’s back from shoulders to hips, soothing and soft.

“Now, please John, now,” Sherlock said, and John began to move.

When he had begun this, John had planned to fuck Sherlock hard and fast right away, but the last minute changed everything. He slid smoothly in and out, pulling out nearly all the way to the tip of his cock, then pushing in to the root. The gripping heat surrounding his cock nearly undid him, and he found himself much closer to orgasm than he thought. He fought it, counteracting the urge by forcing himself to slow down even more. Sherlock hummed with every push and sighed with every withdrawal.

“This okay, love?”

“Very okay,” Sherlock exhaled, breathless with panting. “Feels good.”

“Want some more?”

Sherlock laughed softly into the nest of his arms. “Oh God, yes.”

John laughed in return at the old joke, and took Sherlock’s hips in each of his hands, feeling the sharp bones against his fingers, and steadily increased his pace. Sherlock’s breath punched out of his body with every thrust, the breaths evolving into grunts. John reached forward and took Sherlock’s cock back into his hand, but now he gripped more firmly, the lube and precome mixing to create a potent mix of fluidity. He kept his strong hand on Sherlock’s hip, pulling him back into his thrusts.

He looked down Sherlock’s back, the long, lean lines accentuated by the trim suit jacket, set off by the unruly mess of curls on his head. Suddenly John wanted to rumple the suit’s lines to match the chaos of his hair. Keeping his right hand on Sherlock’s erection, he reached around with this left and fumbled at the buttons of the waistcoat. The large round buttons released easily but he was quickly frustrated by the smaller buttons of the shirt. With a grunt of frustration he simply pulled the shirt free of the waistband of the kilt, pushed his hand underneath and opened his palm against Sherlock’s belly, felt the muscles trembling.

He felt the rhythm starting to get away from him, realized that his pelvis taking control of his body, that he was no longer able to control his speed. He found himself wishing, nonsensically, that he had more hands – he wanted to play with Sherlock’s nipples, he wanted to fuck Sherlock’s cock with his hand, he wanted to twist his fingers into Sherlock’s hair, he wanted both hands on Sherlock’s hips and fuck him hard, hard, and he didn’t have enough brain power left to _decide_.

“John! John!” Sherlock cried out, his voice sharp and frantic. “Please, let me see you, please!”

Somehow the desperation in Sherlock’s voice calmed John, brought him back to himself again. “Yes, love, yes. Come on,” he said, pulling out as gently as he could. As soon as John’s cock was clear of his body, Sherlock whirled around, slid past John’s body and lay down on his back on the floor beside the chair. He hiked up his kilt, raised his arms to John and panted, “Now, please John, come here, come here-”

John couldn’t turn around fast enough, couldn’t kneel between Sherlock’s legs fast enough, but soon, oh soon, he was back inside Sherlock’s body, deeper than before. He could feel Sherlock’s cock trapped among the folds of wool, and he worked to rub his body against it as he set a fast, hard pace. Sherlock raised his legs and wrapped them around John’s body, pulling him closer. His long hands flew to the sides of John’s face and his unearthly eyes fixed on John’s.

The intensity of Sherlock’s gaze locked on John and John alone made John’s cock grow hard and harder still and he felt his orgasm begin to gather. He braced his body up on his elbows and pushed his fingers deep into Sherlock’s hair, focusing on his face.

“Mine,” he growled. “My Sherlock.”

“Yes, yours, John. John – Jo-” Sherlock’s voice went suddenly deeper, and John felt the pulse of muscles around him, and Sherlock cried out, and then John stopped breathing, stopped seeing, stopped hearing anything but the beat of his own heart as he came.

+

Later, still damp from their shower, John and Sherlock were curled into bed together, Sherlock crowded up close against John’s back, one long arm over his ribcage, their hands joined over John’s chest. John hummed happily and snuggled deeper into the warmth of the covers and Sherlock’s body. He cracked one eye open to look at the pile of wool and tartan tossed in the corner.

“I hate to ask, but did you buy or rent those suits, Sherlock?”

“Rent,” Sherlock replied. “But I have a strong suspicion that will need to change to a ‘buy’ scenario now.”

“We’ll have to get them cleaned, no matter what. I won’t be able to look the dry cleaner in the eye again.”

“Not to worry, I’ll send them to Mycroft’s cleaner, under his name.”

John chuckled, sleepy and slow. “You’re a bad, bad man.”

Sherlock didn’t reply, and John felt himself sliding into sleep. He jerked slightly when Sherlock said his name softly.

“Hm? Sorry, thought you’d gone to sleep.”

“Are you still angry with me, John?”

John squeezed Sherlock’s hand gently. “No, not actively angry any more, love.”

“I just… I don’t understand.”

John woke up a bit more and turned to peer at Sherlock. “What?”

“Please don’t get angry again, but I really don’t understand why you were so angry. I’ve gone on cases by myself before, and you never got that angry.”

John turned back, away from Sherlock. Somehow he knew this would be easier to say if he couldn’t see Sherlock.

“That’s true, you have gone away for a case before without me,” he said into the darkness.  “But it’s the first time you’ve done that since you came back, and since we got together. It-” He paused, and let the words gather in his mind, his gut, and his mouth. “It reminded me of when you were away. When you were – gone. When I didn’t know where you were, and couldn’t follow.”

“Oh,” Sherlock said softly, and John heard realization and true regret in the sound. “Oh. I’m so sorry, John.”

“I forgive you, you git. Just don’t do it again.”

“I won’t. I promise.”

He knew from the tone in Sherlock’s voice that this was a promise he intended to keep. “Thank you,” John murmured, and relaxed again into warmth.

After a long moment, he heard Sherlock breathe in, and he expected him to ask him another question, or to tell him about the case; he was slightly startled to hear him sing instead, soft and low:

     _Will ye no' come back again?_

“I know that song,” John smiled. “Bonnie Prince Charlie. My gran used to sing it to me.”

Sherlock hummed, kissed the back of John’s neck and sang again:

     _Will ye no' come back again?_

And Sherlock pulled John a little closer into his arms, sighed, and held him a little tighter as he sang,

     _Better lo'ed ye canna be_

 _Will ye no' come back again?_  

 

End

 

**Author's Note:**

> I have zero skills with visual arts, but if anyone wants to do any art or manips of the boys in their kilts, I'd be happy to link it!
> 
> I did find it interesting that the Watson tartan and the Holmes tartan are more or less the same colours, just a different pattern.


End file.
